


Target

by yumi_michiyo



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Hans is a douchebag, Romance, archery!AU, but they get along somehow, in which the author's notes are longer than the fic itself, lots of tsun action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumi_michiyo/pseuds/yumi_michiyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elsa wants to win the title at this year's Archery World Cup; so does her jerk of a teammate, Hans Westergaard. Unfortunately, they have to work together to take a shot at victory. A prompt-based multichapter fic written for Helsa Week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sighters

**Author's Note:**

> Throw away all your images of Katniss Everdeen, Hawkeye, and Merida. The archery in this fic is Olympic-style modern archery. The Archery World Cup, its schedule, and format is real, although this year's finals are held in Lausanne, Switzerland, and not Corona of course.
> 
> 'Plucking' refers to twanging the bowstring like a guitar, which causes unecessary vibrations and disrupts the arrow's flight path.
> 
> [This video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MlsYcvZLlxc&hl=en-GB&gl=SG) should give you an idea of what Elsa's shooting looks like. The clicker is a small strip of metal attached to the bow that tells you that you've pulled the arrow to the right distance by making a 'click' sound. It rests over the arrow, so when Elsa didn't pull the arrow back properly, it sheared off her fletch.
> 
> Modern fletches aren't the feathery thing you see in movies, but are a curled plastic strip that looks like [this](http://www.abbeyarchery.com.au/mm5/graphics/Spin-Wing-Vanes_large.jpg).
> 
> X10s are the best grade of competition-standard arrows currently available. It costs roughly USD 500 for a dozen.
> 
> FITA is the world archery body. In competitions, archers are supposed to mark their arrows with a distinguishing mark to identify arrows as their own (since brand and fletch colours tend to be similar). Normally they write their initials. Designs like Elsa's are uncommon, but not illegal.
> 
> Hopefully the rest is self-explanatory.
> 
> Also; yes, I am an archer myself. I was vice-captain of my university team and a former national archer. I also set the record for the most number of victories in one season, so I daresay I know what I'm talking about in this fic.

Elsa was careful not to let her nerves betray her as she walked towards the field, bow bag slung on her back. This was it. Elsa Brundtland, Norway's under-25 women's recurve champion and gold medal hopeful, winner of the Bergen qualifiers for the Archery World Cup, and now one of the hot favourites of the competition.

"Good luck, Elsa."

She turned a tight smile on the smirking young man at her left elbow. "The competition doesn't start until tomorrow," said Elsa coldly, ignoring his outstretched hand. "Save it for then."

Much to her annoyance, his smirk only widened.

"Harsh. As expected of the Snow Queen, I suppose."

Elsa's jaw tightened at the use of that nickname – bestowed on her by the international press for her detached, calm demeanour under pressure – but she didn't respond, quickening her pace. It was supposed to be a compliment to her skill, but in his mouth it sounded mocking.

_Conceal, don't feel_ , she thought.

* * *

Two ends into official practice, and Elsa's mood was not much improved. Her grouping was all over the target – far from her standard cluster in the centre – and she was making mistake after mistake.

Elsa took a deep, calming breath. Drawing the string back to touch the tip of her nose, she took aim briefly and released. Even before she heard the thud of the arrow hitting the target board, she knew it had been a bad shot; the string had not left her fingers cleanly.

"You plucked that last one," said Anna unhelpfully. "Didn't you get rid of that habit already?"

Elsa ignored her sister, bending to look through the scope. Black – 4 points. She scowled. "I know I plucked it. I'm a bit off-form today, I just need to get back into my stride."

"And now you're shutting me out again. What is it with you and bad habits today?"

Involuntarily, Elsa's eyes flicked over to the far right of the field, where a head of auburn hair stood out from the other archers on the shooting line. Unfortunately for her, Anna didn't miss it.

Her sister snorted. "Hans Westergaard? You had a run-in with the Prince of the Southern Isles?"

"It was nothing. Just him being an ass."

"I'd say. He was hitting on me in the breakfast hall this morning."

"He _what_?" In her surprise, Elsa released the arrow without clicking; it flew wide, the clicker tearing off a fletch as it went. Both sisters winced as there was no answering thud from the targets.

" _Anna_."

"Okay, okay. Sorry." She backed away quickly. "Later then."

* * *

There was no sign of her arrow, and Elsa hoped fervently that it hadn't gotten buried in the ground. They were her brand-new competition X10s, and she had only just seasoned them; even if she had packed her trusty old set, she had already tuned her poundage and setup to the new arrows.

"Need a hand?"

She groaned internally. Of course it had to be _him_ , out of all the archers on the field. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Two pairs of eyes are better than one," said Hans placidly, an arrow in his hand, the point skimming the grass in search of her missing arrow. He glanced at the quiver on her hip, and the royal blue nocks and fletches on the arrows there. "Nice colour combination, by the way."

Elsa shot him an incredulous look out of the corner of her eye when she was sure his attention was elsewhere. He was being a complete gentleman, and it unsettled her for some reason. But in response to his compliment, she nodded, and turned her attention back to the grass.

"Aha!" Hans was walking to her, an arrow in his hand. "Yours?"

She sighed; the arrow in his hand was muddied, a fletch missing, but it was her X10, complete with the snowflake design she had drawn on the shaft. "Thanks," she said, reaching for it.

He held it just out of her reach, capitalizing on the half a head of height he had on her. "The snowflake marking is pretty, but I'm not too sure it conforms to FITA standards," said Hans.

"Nothing about my equipment is out of order," Elsa said through gritted teeth. She lunged forward and managed to snatch it away, her braid flying with her movements. "Thank _you_ for finding my arrow."

"There's no need to be cold."

"I'm not. You're just being an incorrigible ass."

"You're welcome," he called after her.

* * *

"Ooh, you found it," said Anna brightly as she walked into Elsa's hotel room. Her older sister sat cross-legged on the bed, busy cleaning the arrow and affixing a new fletch. "Any damage?"

"Luckily no, apart from the fletch." Elsa blew on the arrow, making it spin in her hand.

"It was nice of him to help you find it too."

The blonde nearly dropped the arrow. "Wait, what?"

Anna cackled. "I saw everything. You're the only one he's been nice to so far, apparently." She flopped on the bed, making Elsa and her equipment bounce. "Maybe he likes you."

"The only thing Westergaard likes is that shiny trophy on the winners' podium. That's what we're all here for, in fact."

"Uh-huh."

Elsa poked her sister in the leg with her arrow, eliciting a yelp.

* * *

After Anna had retired to her room, Elsa reached into her toolbox and pulled out the scrap of paper she'd found attached to her arrow.

_Hans Westergaard – 113_ , it said. She studied it for a moment, before crumpling it up and throwing it away.


	2. Ranking Rounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the Scottish accent is pretty decipherable, despite what Elsa thinks.
> 
> A stabilizer is a long rod, usually made of carbon, attached to the front of the bow that acts as a counterweight to balance the force that propels the arrow forward when you release the string. Its main purpose is to prevent excess vibrations from disrupting the arrow's flight.
> 
> Wood is the traditional archery material, which has mostly been phased out by modern technology, exemplified by Elsa's equipment (which is also my equipment, except for the riser which has been upgraded to something a world-class archer would use). Some archers, especially English longbow archers, stick to wood which has a better "feel". Wood, however, lacks the distance and consistency of modern aluminum and carbon, which might explain Merida's score (which, despite that, is terrifyingly good for someone using her setup).
> 
> Unmarked arrow holes (usually marked with a pen scribble) are taken as an arrow's score if the arrow pierces through the board. 
> 
> As Hans says, the two top male and female archers from a country's team are paired together for the mixed team knockouts. This event consists of archers taking turns to shoot arrows within a time limit, so Elsa's concern is to arrange a smooth transfer to maximize their time. Hans, however, is being a dick.

Elsa _was_ nervous, despite her internal reassurances to the contrary; this was the world stage, and she was facing some of the world's best archers.

Currently, she was shaking the hand of the reigning world youth champion.

The girl grinned. "Merida Dunbroch. Pleased ter meet you."

"Elsa." They shook hands briefly; Elsa winced. She had forgotten she was still wearing her fingertab, making the clasp awkward. Merida just laughed.

"Elsa Brundtland. A pleasure ter finally meetcha in person."

"Likewise. That was quite the memorable victory over Everdeen in the World University Games."

"Och, ye're too kind. 'Twas a lucky shot an' ye ken it."

"Quite," said Elsa, the effort of deciphering the thick Scottish brogue becoming too difficult to sustain.

The intercom took pity on Elsa, crackling to life: "Attention archers. Three minutes until we will begin the sighting round. You will have three practice ends and then the first round will begin immediately after."

"Best o' luck."

"Same to you."

Merida turned away, bending to take up her bow from the bowstand and checking the sight. Unusually, she had only the barest of accessories: a single long stabilizer, what looked like a wood-composite riser, and wooden limbs.

Elsa glanced at her own top-of-the-line Hoyt setup; wood-foam composite limbs, sleek aluminium riser, and enough stabilizers to be called overkill. Usually the archers with the least conventional equipment were the ones to be feared, especially at this stage of the competition. Her hand stole to her arrows, counting them off; six of her best, plus two spares. Merida had eschewed plastic spin wing vanes in favour of what looked like traditional feather fletching, and – good heavens – were those wooden shafts?

The timer beeped twice. All other thoughts left Elsa's mind as she picked up her bow, tied the fingersling around her thumb, and stepped onto the shooting line. A little further ahead, she saw Anna's familiar auburn hair. Her sister, as though sensing Elsa's eyes on her, turned around and flashed her a thumbs-up.

Elsa smiled. The timer beeped once.

She slipped into habit. Selecting an arrow from her quiver, Elsa nocked it to her string and wrapped her fingers around the centre serving. Smoothly, she began the draw, hoisting the bow up and pulling, tensing her back muscles. Elsa took a breath, anchoring her right hand under her chin, sighting through the pin, continuing to expand –

The bow clicked. She released.

Glancing through the scope, she breathed a sigh of relief. Eight o'clock, blue. Not bad at all. She made the corresponding adjustments to her sight, taking the windsock fluttering behind the target into due consideration.

Her second shot was in the yellow. Line-cutter, possibly ten points. She furrowed her brow as she noted Merida's white fletches grouped in the centre of the target.

Elsa sent two more arrows into the yellow zone and then decided to call it a day for the sighting round. She had her sight; no point in expending her energy unnecessarily.

Besides, it seemed she was going to need it.

* * *

"And that marks the end of the last scoring round. Well done, archers. Don't forget to mark your arrow holes. Tabulate your scores and submit to the DOS stand to your left, and please bear with us while we come up with the rankings."

Elsa allowed herself a smile as she totted up her arrows. She was on form – thankfully, after the fiasco that was the previous day – with 695 points out of a maximum 720. Not her personal best, of course, but decent enough at world standards. Merida, for all her deadly accuracy, was a capricious archer as it turned out. She had some brilliant ends but did make a few mistakes; yet, her score of 693 was too close for comfort. Elsa privately hoped she would not be pitted against Merida in the individual matches.

Pabbie, the Norwegian team manager, came over. "How'd you do, Elsa?" She showed him her personal scorebook, and he smiled. "Excellent, as always."

"Elsaaaa!" Anna, her auburn braids bouncing, dashed up to her sister, followed by Kristoff at a more sedate pace. "I bet you shot 720, right?"

She laughed. "I wish. Here, what's your score?" Anna coloured, handing over her book.

"656? Anna, what happened?"

"I'm sorry!" she squeaked. "I had a bit of trouble with the wind, and then my lucky arrow lost a fletch!"

"I did tell you to up your poundage," said Elsa, running a finger over the table of arrow scores. "32 pounds is too light for you. With this wind, I think 36 would be quite comfortable."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Anna stuck her tongue out and grinned. Her sister rolled her eyes and tugged on one braid.

"How about you, Kristoff?"

"698," he said with some satisfaction, and Anna elbowed him. "I had a good day."

"I bet it was that lucky reindeer charm of yours," giggled the redhead, tugging on the plush reindeer toy that dangled from his chest guard. "Aren't you such a lucky duck, yes you are!"

"Hey, hey. Don't talk to Sven like that."

"Attention, archers," crackled the intercom. "The individual rankings have just been posted."

"Let's go!" said Anna eagerly, grabbing Elsa and Kristoff and dragging them over to the scoreboards. "Mixed team results should be out as well!"

"Whaaaaaaaat?" Anna ran her finger down the list of names again, accidentally elbowing a disgruntled-looking archer in the face. "Elsa and _Hans Westergaard_?"

"Who knew he'd hit a new personal best?" said Kristoff. "707, phew. I'd kill to break 700."

"I'd just kill," said Anna darkly. "That jerk."

Elsa had both hands up, and was making placating gestures – in spite of the apprehension she was feeling. "Calm down, you two. It's not like I'm marrying him or anything. It's just the mixed team knockout allocations."

Hans himself appeared. "Ah, Elsa. Congratulations on being the top female archer on our team, by the way." He held out a hand; Elsa noted he was wearing golf gloves. "Thank you," she said, shaking it reluctantly. "Congratulations to you as well."

Anna was staring daggers at him; Elsa couldn't tell if he was pretending not to notice or was genuinely unaware. She suspected the former.

"We've both worked hard for this. I look forward to shooting with you this afternoon."

Elsa knew the polite thing was to echo the words, but she couldn't bring herself to.

* * *

Hans was startled out of his thoughts by a lunch tray clattering unceremoniously in front of him. "Okay," said Elsa loudly, "let's go over the team order now and get it out of the way."

He arched an eyebrow and said nothing; the scrutiny made her blush. "What's the hurry?" he asked, twirling spaghetti around his fork leisurely. She gritted her teeth.

"The quicker we decide, the less time I have to spend in your company."

"There's no need to be so cold, Elsa; we _are_ on the same team, after all." Hans took a bite of pasta and chewed. "We'll be seeing a lot of each other from now on."

She scowled. "That it may be, but it doesn't mean I need to be civil to you either."

"It would certainly be more pleasant, though." He pushed away his tray, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "But I digress. Team knockouts. I shoot quickly, so I can cover for you."

"Do you have to be so bloody condescending?" hissed Elsa; she noticed the people around her staring at them, and blushed. "I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

"Excellent. I look forward to your… _capability_ , then." He rose, and smiled thinly. "Our progress depends on it."

Elsa opened her mouth, mustering an indignant reply, but her hesitation had given him ample time to vanish into the crowd.


	3. Mixed Team Knockouts - 1/8 Eliminations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 prompt: Lost all control.
> 
> As always, extensive explanations can be found on my Tumblr, but for the supremely lazy:
> 
> The mixed team knockout format is 4 ends (rounds) of 4 arrows in 80 seconds, 2 arrows per archer. Highest cumulative arrow score wins.
> 
> A stab between a guy's legs is very, very painful. I've seen it happen.
> 
> A one-arrow shoot-off is pretty self-explanatory; one arrow per archer, highest total wins. In case of another tie, the judges select the arrow closest to the centre.

"Okay," said Anna, hovering around Elsa like an overexcited planet, "don't be nervous. If you're nervous, you'll mess up. Wait – no. I shouldn't have said that. You'll be awesome. Awesomer. Is that even a thing? Hey, Kristoff – "

"And that's quite _enough_ ," said the burly blonde, reaching out to grab Anna and physically drag her backwards. She gave a squeak of indignation. Kristoff grinned.

"Just shoot like you always do, Elsa; it's taken you this far."

Elsa smiled for the first time since lunch, when she had stalked back to her sister and her boyfriend, infuriated beyond words by her incorrigible teammate. "Thanks, Kristoff. You too, Anna."

Her bow in her hand, Elsa stepped on the equipment line; Hans was already there, twiddling with his sight pin. He looked up when she approached.

"Finally ready?" he asked. She fixed him with a hard look, and then nodded.

"I'm prepared to pick up your slack, yes."

Hans started, and then quickly transformed his look of stunned bewilderment into a grin. "Ohhh. I think I'm liking this side of you, Elsa. Is this the 'I-mean-business' Snow Queen talking?"

" _One more word_ that isn't related to the competition, and I will jam my stab between your legs."

He looked like he was still going to sneak in a word (and _so help her_ , if he uttered _another_ word, she would fulfil her promise in spite of the strange looks the opposing Indian team was shooting her) but then the buzzer beeped twice. Elsa stepped up to the team waiting line and paused, her right hand already hovering over her arrows.

When the signal came, Elsa was already moving, her arrow loaded and nocked. She paused in pre-draw, reading the windsock behind the target; it fluttered faintly to the right, meaning a breeze from the left. Adjusting her aim accordingly, she shot and was moving off the line before she heard the dull thud of the arrow hitting home.

There was a dull roar from the scattered spectators behind them; from Anna's excited whoop, she knew it was a good shot.

"Ten points," said Hans, as he stepped forward to take his own shot. "Not bad."

Elsa looked him squarely in the eye. She wanted to yell at him for wasting their precious time, but instead she heard herself saying, "try not to mess up."

He only smirked.

* * *

Elsa chewed on her bottom lip. Three ends into the match, and the Indian team had the lead, but only just; they trailed 104 points to the Indians' 106.

She would have dearly loved to chew Hans out for the measly seven-pointer he shot the last end, but she knew her second arrow in the first end had been nothing to shout about. It was her own fault, really; Elsa had misjudged the wind, lost control of the shot, belatedly attempted to save the arrow at the last minute by jerking the bow, and ended up with a six-pointer.

For the final end, the Indians had shot first, and finished with a score of 148 – twelve points short of the maximum. They had to go one better, or shoot the same to force a one-arrow shoot-off; a scenario Elsa wanted to avoid as much as possible.

_This was their final end – and final chance_ , the archer thought as she stepped up to the line. They currently had a score of 111. She had to do her best in the next two arrows, and hope Hans held up his end.

Hans was silent now, apparently feeling the pressure. Elsa could think of nothing else but blissful relief that his smart mouth was finally, _finally_ silent.

She took her first shot; nine points.

They exchanged places, and Hans shot. Ten points.

The score was now 130, and they were two arrows away from victory or elimination.

Elsa prayed to every deity she could think of before releasing. Ten points. They were now at 140.

It was all up to Hans now; he needed a nine or higher to win outright.

The field was silent as every eye watched him calmly nock his arrow and stand on the shooting line. The seconds ticked down on the electronic counter: 20, 19…

He brought his bow up, aimed for what seemed like an eternity –

Elsa found she was holding her breath.

He released.

Nine points. It was enough.

A roar went up as the calculations were made, and Anna screeched.

Elsa breathed a sigh of relief. _That… hadn't been so bad…_

And then he tossed her the most self-satisfied smirk she had ever seen on a man, and she regretted any and every sympathetic thought she had had about Hans Westergaard.


	4. 1/4 Eliminations and Semifinals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 prompt: It's complicated.
> 
> Previously (I'm not sure whether it's still done now), the exact centre of the bullseye was where they'd put a pinhole camera in an attempt to make archery more interesting to watch (because let's face it, unless you're an archer yourself, most of what's going on apart from the shooting is lost on the average spectator). Once in a while, an archer would pull off this shot, which is nigh impossible; the camera is smaller than most arrows.
> 
> It wasn't explained in an earlier chapter, but poundage refers to the weight of the bow in pounds (duh). The higher the poundage, the harder it is to pull, and the faster your arrow is propelled. Elsa would be shooting 36-38 pounds, which is a little on the heavy side for women (especially one of her height and build). But as mentioned in the fic, heavier poundage helps negates the effects of weather on your arrows, making aiming easier.
> 
> Anchoring means to hold the bow in full draw, your bow hand fixed to your face. It's the pose you normally see in movie poster archers.
> 
> In archery, you actually use your back muscles to pull the bow, not your arms, which is a common beginner's mistake. But sometimes you can accidentally strain your arms/shoulders if you hold the bow in anchor position for too long.
> 
> The X is the absolute centre of the target although it's marked with a little plus sign on the bullseye. The pinhole camera is placed on the centre of the crosshairs.
> 
> If the British can have a princess (Princess Anne) on their Olympic equestrian team, I most certainly can have a Coronan princess and prince-consort on the German national archery team.

The next match was against the team from China. Elsa blinked; the shorter of the pair looked like a man.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a not-so-subtle nudge. "If you're quite done with your daydreaming," said Hans sardonically, "we're about to start the 1/4 eliminations, Your Majesty."

She quenched her anger by thinking of him impaled with hundreds of arrows, and actually was cheered enough by the image to smile back at him. "Thanks for the reminder, I'm ready now."

"If you say so," Hans fired back, but he looked distinctly unsettled by her calm.

* * *

Unlike their battle with the Indian team, the fight with the Chinese had less suspense, but was far more brutal. Both archers hammered shot after shot into the yellow zone.

Elsa was gratified to see Hans was focusing entirely on the match; not only did it mean he wasn't being infuriating as usual, but she was free to devote her fullest attention to it as well.

 _I'm going to need it_ , she thought, seeing the slight Chinese archer let fly an arrow that not only hit the bullseye, but smashed the pinhole camera in the centre.

Hans rounded on her in the impromptu break while officials removed the remains of the camera. "You'd better up your game, Brundtland," he hissed, using her surname for the first time in his anxiety, "you're practically dead weight now."

"I'm not the one who shot a five the last end, _Hans_ ," she said, relishing the shift in their relationship - _wait, what? Partnership. Yes. That's what this is._ " _You_ pick up _your_ slack."

She all but stomped onto the shooting line when the buzzer sounded, pure ire driving her arrow into the bullseye, earning her a startled look from the Chinese archers and calculated indifference from Hans.

_At this rate, I'm going to earn myself a reputation as the angriest archer._

* * *

"They're not getting along, aren't they?" said Anna.

"That," replied Kristoff, "would be the biggest understatement of the century."

* * *

Hans' next arrow was a decent nine – the taller of the Chinese archers (Shang, Elsa remembered) matched it with a nine of his own. Elsa added another ten points, and was met with a ten from the other archer.

That brought the end to a close with a tie. Elsa groaned; it had become a one-arrow shoot-off. She barely heard the judge talking, explaining the rules to them.

She glanced at Hans, who stared back. Wordlessly, it was agreed she would shoot first.

As Elsa stepped on the shooting line, the wind began to pick up. She frowned; her poundage was nowhere near as light as Anna's but the wind was now enough to considerably affect her arrows.

The archer remained at anchor, adjusting her sight to compensate for the wind, ignoring the burn in her arms and shoulders as she held the position.

Finally, she released – and almost cried out, as pain tore through her left shoulder. Elsa moved off the line, biting her lip, keeping the injured shoulder as stiff as she could.

Anna was at her side in an instant. "Where does it hurt?" she asked. Elsa motioned with a jerk of her chin, hissing in pain as her sister gently explored the area with her fingers.

"It's not serious," she said with a sigh of relief. "But you need to ice it and keep it loose, minimise any swelling. With a bit of luck, you'll be fine for the rest of the competition." Anna knew better than to tell her sister to stop shooting for the day. She, however, was not above shooting Elsa a look, meaningful look.

The older girl gave her a sheepish look. "How was my shot?"

Anna grinned. "An X. Hans shot a ten; I'd like to see them beat _that_."

The slighter of the two shot a ten, of course; but there was a loud groan moments later when Shang shot a nine.

"We won," said Elsa faintly, hardly daring to believe their luck.

Hans appeared at her side. "By a hair."

"No thanks to you." Elsa, already irritated by her carelessness and the pain in her shoulder, was about to tear into her teammate when a soft "Excuse me?" froze both archers in their tracks. They turned in the direction of the voice; the Chinese team stood there, glancing uncertainly between Elsa and Hans.

The Norwegian archer smiled. "Congratulations," she said, extending her hand to them. The smaller archer shook it, her grip surprisingly strong. "That was a good match."

"It was my honour to shoot against you. My name is Mulan. I must say, you are one of the finest opponents I have met," she said in careful English. "Hopefully I will meet you in the individual eliminations?" A wicked grin briefly crossed her face. "I would relish the opportunity to avenge our loss today, of course."

Elsa's smile widened. "Of course. I look forward to it too."

Shang, clearly still mortified by his last arrow, nevertheless smiled and nodded at the Norwegian team. "I wish you both the best of luck in the rest of the competition."

"Thank you," said Elsa. Hans echoed her words.

* * *

Compared to the dramatic match against the Chinese, the semifinals were considerably less heart-stopping. The team from Germany were clearly a couple and that had a huge impact on their dynamic; they moved with an easy fluidity like they were dancing.

It also helped that they were the home team and favourites.

"How does she stay upright with all that hair?" wondered Anna aloud as she watched the Germans walk to their side of the field, acknowledging the thunderous applause from the spectators. Kristoff sighed. "Open mouth, insert foot much, Anna? At this rate, you'll be banned from every competition there is."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Oooh, they're starting soon."

* * *

Hans was sullen throughout the match while Elsa had her game face on; a complete contrast to the cheerfulness radiating from the German girl. "Elsa, right?" she chirped. "I'm Rapunzel. I'd shake your hand, but we've got our fingertabs on, and we're about to shoot, so yes."

She nodded, distracted by the judge, but couldn't help smiling; the girl's rambling reminded her of Anna. _They would get along like a house on fire_. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Rapunzel." Rapunzel beamed and wandered away to the equipment line.

Elsa was having a good match, for once. Her shoulder only niggled, not pained; even Hans was borderline polite as he threw all his energy into his shooting. The day was beginning to wear on them both and she was relieved to find that even he and his boundless snark had their limits. She was heartened that for all his attitude, he was still first and foremost a professional athlete.

"No fives this time around, Westergaard?" she couldn't resist saying.

"Only waiting on you, Your Majesty. It's not polite to go before a lady."

"Glad you've realised that." With her last arrow, Norway won the match, and the Germans took their loss graciously with all the affability of a benevolent host.

"I think we've lost the popularity contest," commented Hans as the crowd roared for the defeated Rapunzel and her partner (the former still waving excitedly, apparently having lost none of her energy). Elsa rolled her eyes.

"We just trounced their princess and prince-consort. What were you expecting?"

His eyes bugged out of his head. She smirked. "Oh, Hans," she said, "I expected you to know royalty when you saw it, especially after you were so kind to address me by my title."


	5. Finals... and Day 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 prompt: Secrets, lies, and trust.
> 
> Kisik Lee is currently the head coach of the US Olympic archery team and creator of the National Training System which coaches are required to learn in order to be certified by USA Archery. It's based on his analysis of body control, muscular requirements, and mental concentration needed to generate a good shot. Personally, I've never heard of him, and I'm not too sure there can be a uniform system for archery, but this guy coached Brady Ellison – one of the world's best archers with a great form – so yeah, he gets a mention.
> 
> The individual eliminations work like this; in the ranking round, archers are ranked from top score to bottom, and the top 48 archers move on to the individual knockouts (IKO). 1st-ranked guy is matched against the 48th-ranked and so on, they shoot a set match like in the mixed team knockouts, winner moves on.
> 
> By now, hopefully you guys have become archery experts and don't need my notes anymore. That being said, enjoy the rest of the fic.

"This is it," said Elsa, her heart threatening to beat its way out of her chest, that same heavy pounding she always got at crucial points of competition. "The mixed team finals."

"And then it'll be all over," Hans said.

"At long last."

He opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a loud voice. "Weel noo," said a very familiar Scottish brogue, "if it isn't Elsa agin. This match jest got mair interestin'."

"Merida," she smiled, reaching out to clasp her hand, "I should have guessed we'd be up against you."

"O'course it'll be me ye'll face in th' finals, hae ye e'er doobted it?" Merida jerked her thumb at the blonde, heavyset young man beside her. "Me partner, MacGuffin." He grinned and said something that had Elsa and Hans blinking.

"Dinna fash yersel', no one kens a word he's saying."

"Oh." At a loss for words – which seemed to be how her conversations with the Scottish girl usually turned out – Elsa turned to the familiarity of her equipment. Her shoulder twinged warningly, and she ignored it, taking deep breaths to calm herself down.

"Don't overdo it."

"... What?"

"Anna told me you injured yourself in the last round," said Hans, his golf gloves already on, leaning against his scope casually. "Don't overdo it, or you'll be in trouble for the individual event tomorrow."

Elsa mentally weighed the merits of being nice to him. "I could say the same to you, actually," she remarked. "Your form was a little out towards the end. Good thing you put that arrow down, or you'd have plucked that shot."

"You noticed?"

"Of course. This is our medal on the line here."

He grinned, and she was almost happy to see him in a good mood again – almost, until she quashed the thought.

"Our medal's already guaranteed; it's just the colour that'll be decided now."

"I can cover for you," said Elsa evenly.

Hans raised an eyebrow, and she smirked despite herself. "How generous of you, Elsa."

* * *

The Scots took a commanding lead, Merida's arrows hitting yellow with frightening precision.

Elsa couldn't resist a jab when she caught the look on Hans' face. "Scared?"

"On the contrary, Elsa, I'm looking forward to the challenge."

In his eyes she saw the fierce joy she knew well; the thrill of competition, and the anticipation of victory. She blinked. He smirked, and went up to the shooting line.

* * *

As the ends wore on, she was pleasantly surprised (for the third time in so many hours) to find Hans' original personality (at least, the first one she met) easier to get along with, and easier still to shoot with. It mattered little whether she liked it or not; she was a professional, and she had her goals clearly delineated. Heaven help any person or thing who attempted to divert her from them.

The match was tight, both sides fighting for control, only relinquishing an odd point here and there to the other. The lead constantly shifted. It was clear Merida was carrying the team, more than making up for her partner's shooting; while he was good, he was nowhere near the brilliance that she displayed.

"Her form is excellent," mused Hans aloud. "Perfect anchoring, smooth release, and constant expansion." Elsa hummed her agreement. "She doesn't move her head at all. I've seen archers who shot for years and couldn't do that."

"She must have started young with an excellent coach. Korean definitely. One of the retired Olympians – maybe one of Kisik Lee's students. I mean, look at the way she moves –"

"Yes, now that you mention it..." He fell silent, studying Merida as she followed through her shot. "Yeah, you're right. That's his shot cycle alright, I can't believe I didn't notice that earlier."

They blinked as they found themselves actually having a civil discussion, and agreeing on something to boot. It was a disconcerting feeling, and Elsa squirmed a little. She moved away, standing behind the shooting line, willing away the butterflies before the fourth and final end.

* * *

"Silver isn't too bad," said Anna soothingly as she jogged alongside her sister, attempting to pack up her scope. "It's a pretty impressive achievement for a first-time showing at the World Cup, plus from someone ranked in the outer hundreds..." She fumbled with her pouch, pulling out a smartphone and thrusting it in Elsa's face; forcing her to squint cross-eyed to see the table on the screen.

Elsa blinked. "You did the research?"

"Of course! The roaming data costs are murder, though, ugh."

"You didn't have to," said the blonde.

"Uh, yeah, I did," replied Anna. "I mean, the look on your face? Yeesh. Scary. Although," she added in an undertone as Hans stalked up from behind, "not as scary as his."

"I'm glad." Elsa fell back a little, matching her pace to his. "Good job on that last end, Westergaard."

"Hmm? Oh, Elsa. Thanks. Sorry, I was a little preoccupied."

"Back to the first name basis, are we?"

Hans smirked. "Which, alas, doesn't seem to apply to me."

"I don't recall asking you to use my first name at all, actually."

He shrugged. "A technicality?"

Anna interrupted their conversation gracelessly, clinging to Elsa's free arm. "You'll miss the award ceremony if you keep dawdling like this," she said briskly, shooting a glare at Hans which he pretended not to notice.

* * *

Hans was up early – earlier than even the other male archers – and headed to the practice range with a few energy bars in his pocket instead of sitting down with a hot breakfast. The recurve men's 1/48 eliminations was the first of what was scheduled to be a long and grueling day. It was still dark out when he reached the range; he zipped up his windbreaker against the chill.

He found a good place and set up his scope and bow, adjusting for the leftmost target board.

"Good morning."

"Huh?" He looked up – and his mouth fell open, letting a bit of granola fall from it.

Elsa, bundled in the team windbreaker as well, a scope in her hand, was looking everywhere but at him.

"What're you doing here so early?" asked Hans tetchily, partly annoyed at having his routine interrupted and partly bemused to see her.

She fixed him with a look colder than the morning air. "Sighting for you."

"You don't need to. I've always managed on my own."

Elsa narrowed her eyes. "Well, fine," she said curtly.

"...Wait."

She halted mid-stride, and spun on her heel with a suddenness that almost made him drop his bow. "What now?"

"I said that you didn't need to, not that I didn't want you to." Hans was smiling at her – a genuine smile which completely threw her off. "I'd be honoured if you'd sight for me."

"O-oh," said Elsa, unable to keep a heated blush from her face. She told herself it was just the cold. "Okay."

* * *

"So it looks like... oh, okay. She isn't coming back."

"Really now."

"Yeah. It's like watching one of those American romantic comedies. Totally conventional."

"Nothing like us, huh? You _ran_ out in the _road_ in front of my _car_ and demanded I drive you around town to look for your sister because she skipped practice, and then you wolfed down one of those fast food things plus three boxes of chocolate. Now _that's_ unconventional."

Anna smiled. "Yeah. And then I managed to total your car too. Good times."

Kristoff shot her a fond look mixed with exasperation, something he had become very good at since dating her.

* * *

Hans checked the noticeboard for his first match. He raised an eyebrow at his opponent's name.

"You shot much better during the mixed team knockouts," commented the archer.

Shang sighed. "I was having a problem with my release and could not manage to work it out until the end of the first round."

"Feeling better today?"

"Much better."

"Good."

* * *

Mulan was acting as Shang's coach for the match. She hid a smile behind her towel as Elsa set up her scope behind the equipment line.

"I see you two have become more comfortable with each other."

Elsa blinked rapidly. "I-it's nothing like that! My scope is better than his, and our teammates are all busy elsewhere. It'll be a little pathetic if no one came to sight for him."

"Of course," said Mulan serenely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers in your ear* Elsa and Hans are totally tsundere in this one. *runs away*


	6. Individual Eliminations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 prompt: I'm scared.
> 
> You'd think a prompt-based seven-parter fic like this would be done by now, but _nooooo_. Apologies friends, I was traveling in Japan for a month. Here's an extra-long chapter to help make up for the long hiatus.
> 
> In archery, eliminations progress along a match table until there are four archers (who have won all their previous matches) left in the semifinals. The winners go into the gold medal match (loser gets silver) and the losers in bronze medal match (loser doesn't get a medal). Bronze medal matches are especially bitter because it's the archers' last shot at a medal.

Despite Shang's formidable shooting, he was no match for Hans. The latter was barely able to hide the pleased smirk as the men shook hands after the match, and Elsa scowled.

"In fine form, I see," she remarked caustically as he carried his equipment off the line.

Hans grinned. "Oh, definitely."

Elsa decided it was a waste of time. She had a match of her own coming up, and she needed to focus.

* * *

Kristoff divided his time between sighting for both Anna and Elsa (despite the older girl's insistence that she was perfectly capable of shooting solo, and wouldn't Anna appreciate it if her boyfriend was supporting her?), despite the sisters fighting their matches at opposite ends of the field.

"High – 7 points," he called, and Elsa nodded tightly.

"Aim off at red under."

Kristoff blinked; Elsa, halfway through setting up her next arrow, froze.

Hans was setting up his scope casually. "You can go now, Bjorgman," he said offhandedly, preoccupied with adjusting his lens, "Elsa will be fine here."

"Wait, what?"

He made a dismissive waving motion at the blonde man with his free hand, just as Elsa glanced at them – and froze. Much to her credit, she recovered quickly and returned her attention to the match. As the buzzer sounded for them to collect their arrows after the set, though, she shot a murderous look at Hans, who responded with his characteristic smirk.

Kristoff shrugged helplessly.

* * *

The recurve archers had a long lunch as the compound category took to the field for their own 1/48 elimination matches.

" – and then when I turned around, he'd set up his things there and was giving me advice," huffed Elsa, stabbing at her chicken viciously as though it was Hans' face.

"Was the advice useful?"

"… yes."

"Well, there you go." Anna's smirk widened in a manner that reminded Elsa of Hans. "Honestly, Elsa, I don't know what you're complaining about." She sucked on her straw, making loud slurping noises that deepened Elsa's grimace. "You won those matches! You're in the top 12, you're on track to be Norway's youngest-ever archery champion under-25, you've got a cute boyfriend – "

Elsa spluttered. "He is _not_ my _boyfriend_ , you little _brat_!" The blonde archer reached over the table to poke Anna in the ribs as she attempted to squirm away amidst helpless laughter. "Kristoff, help!"

"I'm not getting into this one. You brought it on yourself."

"I think boyfriend is a bit of a stretch. No, I'd settle for the friend part first," commented Hans, seating himself at the table. All three froze in a comical tableau as he calmly started eating.

Elsa scowled. "Stop doing that!"

"Doing what?"

"That whole… showing up unexpectedly in places where you're not wanted, thing."

He arched an eyebrow. "I'm not wanted? That's rather harsh of you, Elsa."

"Harsh? Did any of us invite you here before you just flung yourself down?"

"I don't mean that. I meant the open hostility that you've regarded me with these past few days, despite the fact I've done nothing to justify that."

Neither Hans nor Elsa noticed Anna and Kristoff quietly withdrawing from the table.

"I came here to compete, and so did you. I'd appreciate it if I could focus on that, rather than having to put up with distractions."

"Oh, am I a distraction then?" He was rapidly losing his cool. "In case you've forgotten, I'm your teammate. I'm also here to compete, but unlike you, I am actually being sociable and helpful."

Elsa gritted her teeth. "Sociable…? You've been nothing but condescending and insufferable – "

" _Enough_." Hans stood up, his expression cold. "I think I'd rather not wait for you to finish that sentence. If you want to be left alone, you can just say so and save us both the trouble. I apologise for the inconvenience I've caused, then. Good luck for your match later." Before she could say anything, he had left the cafeteria.

* * *

Now that the puzzle of Hans was resolved, Elsa was free to devote her fullest concentration on shooting. No more puzzling over his behavior, no more having to deal with his slick attempts at conversation, and especially no more smug smirking.

Much to her surprise, she was even more distracted than before.

The cherry on the icing was her abysmal shooting. Bad shots frustrated her, and the frustration bled over into the rest of her performance, ruining good shots. The only saving grace was that her opponent seemed to be having a worse day than her, and Elsa scraped through by a hair.

* * *

As she waited for her 1/8 eliminations match to start, she was surprised to see Anna and Kristoff slink over to her. "We both got kicked out in the 1/16s," said Anna sheepishly. "I kinda expected it, but _Kristoffer_ here is being a big baby about it."

He nudged her. "Am not. All I said was that with Sven on my side, I was expecting to make the semifinals at the very least." Kristoff tugged on her braid. "And that's for the Kristoffer crack."

"Clearly you weren't betting on that guy with his mascot, Abu."

"Yeah, since when does a monkey trump a reindeer?"

"When it's a real live monkey, that's when."

Elsa allowed herself to smile for the first time that afternoon, amused by their childish bickering. "A live monkey?"

"I know, right? How he managed to slip that past customs, I have no idea."

The buzzer went, and Elsa snapped to attention. Anna and Kristoff took up their spots behind her, mouthing "good luck" and (solely on Anna's part) flashing exaggerated thumbs up signs. Her opponent – a sturdily-built woman she didn't know – kept drumming an incessant tattoo on her riser with her fingers, and Elsa couldn't help but focus on the motion.

There was a sour sensation in the pit of her stomach, and she recognized it as fear.

Another buzz, and everyone surged forward to the shooting line. Elsa lined up an arrow automatically, her body accustomed to the routine; as she anchored, levering her hand underneath her chin.

Her opponent was right-handed, meaning left-handed Elsa shot face-to-face with her. The other archer had just released, and it must have been a good shot from the pleased smirk she wore; she tossed a jaunty look at Elsa as she reached for another arrow.

Elsa collapsed the shot and put down her bow.

* * *

Behind her, Anna frowned. "She put it down? Wait, what?"

"She looks nervous. I never thought I'd see her nervous," commented Kristoff, and the redhead jabbed him in the ribs.

"Shush, don't say the N word. You'll throw her off." Anna lifted her head, raising her voice slightly to reach Elsa. "You've got plenty of time! Relax, and go for it! I know you can do it, Elsa!"

The blonde archer gave no sign she had heard, but her next shot was in the yellow, and Anna let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

* * *

"That," said Anna, "was wayyyyy too close for my liking." When her sister didn't respond, she flung herself dramatically over the scope. Elsa sighed and looked up. "What are you talking about, Anna?"

"If that girl hadn't hit her arm with her string on that arrow, she would have won."

"But she did, and she lost. That's it." The older girl returned to studying the target intensely. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to prepare for the semifinal match."

"Funny you should say that, because that's what Hans is doing too."

"Hans?" Her composure wavered for an instant, and Anna smirked.

"Got you there."

Elsa narrowed her eyes. "That's good for him and our team if he's in the semifinals as well."

Anna only raised an eyebrow; the gesture was deliberately ignored. "Mmhmm. _Suuuure_." As though sensing she was pushing close to the end of Elsa's patience, she flounced off with a quick excuse.

Left to her own devices, the blonde archer glanced at her opponent.

"Weel," said Merida, folding her arms across her chest and smiling in a way that sent a spike of fear down Elsa's spine, "gude t'see you agin, Elsa."

"Likewise."

* * *

Arrows, fired in quick succession.

Elsa wiped a bead of sweat from her face.

On the other end of the field, Hans' expression was dark.

The buzzer sounded.

* * *

Hans, slumped and scowling in the grandstands, watched as Elsa shot her way through her final match of the day.

* * *

Anna singlehandedly threw a party in a nearby bar to celebrate Elsa's place in the medal matches; the star of the event herself, however, was nowhere to be seen. With a little help from Kristoff (who detested attention almost as much as she did), Elsa escaped halfway through Anna's dramatic retelling of the match. The street outside was nearly deserted, except for the occasional car that sped past.

"I'd imagine they'll be looking for you soon, Miss Brundtland. It _is_ your party, after all."

Elsa cringed, even as she felt heat prickling her cheeks; the formality in that familiar voice was something she wasn't used to.

"I'm not too fond of social gatherings – those are more of Anna's thing. Besides, you should be celebrating too, am I right?"

"Evidently, though I believe my thoughts on that matter are rather apparent," he said dryly, glancing back as a distant roar of laughter echoed. He pulled the cigarette stub from his lips and ground it out with his heel. "Though I don't understand the need to celebrate a loss." Elsa watched, strangely fascinated, as the red glow faded.

"I didn't know you smoked."

Hans pulled out a pack and a lighter from his jacket pocket; a flame flickered and was snuffed out, replaced by the glow of the fresh cigarette. "It's my guilty pleasure."

A long moment passed before he broke the silence. "Congratulations on getting into the medal matches."

"… Thank you. The same to you, I suppose?" Elsa honestly didn't understand why people saw the need to congratulate her as she was only competing for a bronze medal – her defeat at Merida's hands for the second time in the tournament stung. However, she was well aware there was no polite way to brush him off; the atmosphere between them was already stilted. Her anger at him from earlier in the day had long ebbed away, replaced by guilt and a sense of awkwardness, and a desire to make amends.

Hans raised his cigarette in a mock salute. "Here's to us, then." In the gloom, he shot her a quick sidelong glance. She nodded tightly, still not meeting his eyes.

Another long moment passed, in which Elsa studied her shoes intensely and he ground out the new cigarette stub.

"Tomorrow," said Hans, "are the team eliminations. Coach didn't enter us for that, so we're free and easy." Elsa nodded. She had planned on spending the day in her room; though the archer hadn't expected to get this far in the individual eliminations, she knew that she needed to prepare herself mentally.

"There is an excellent restaurant nearby that Flynn told me about; would you care to join me for dinner?"

Elsa blinked. "Flynn?" she asked slowly, deliberately ignoring the invitation.

"His preferred name when going incognito from the palace." He sounded annoyed, but she persuaded herself that she was imagining things.

"Palace? Are you talking about Prince Eugene?"

"I am, but that's besides the point."

She hesitated. Her first impulse was to turn him down flat, but the hurt and anger in his eyes from earlier...

"Alright," she found herself saying.

Hans' expression changed swiftly, from surprise to a genuine pleasure. It suited him better than the arrogant smirk he usually wore. "Thank you. I honestly didn't think you would accept."

"Neither did I," said Elsa, her heart pounding in her chest.


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 prompt: Thawing
> 
> Contains some strong language (okay, one f-word).
> 
> Is this the last prompt in the list? Yes. Is this the last chapter in the mini-fic? Yes. ~~Will there be an epilogue of some sorts to calm my raging shipper feels? Most likely.~~
> 
> Bonus points for spotting the Disney cameos.

"Wait, you said _what_?"

Elsa attempted to shoot one of her icy stares at her sister, but was distracted by a lock of hair falling out of its bun. She settled for turning her back on Anna as she busied herself with fixing her hairdo.

The redhead was not to be deterred. "So you're going out with Hans Westergaard tonight? For dinner? On a d – "

" – I know what you're about to say, and it is _not_."

An unperturbed Anna shrugged. "Okay. Suuuure. So you're going out on this thing which is _like_ a date but _not_ a date because you're in denial. Not a big thing."

Elsa didn't bother gratifying Anna's statement with a response. After two tries, the blonde managed to pin the errant lock back into place; after frowning at her reflection for a moment, she pulled the bun out and started again.

Anna huffed. " _Fine_. Ignore me. Just like how you're ignoring the reality of this _date_."

Elsa threw a hairpin at her. It hit the redhead's nose, prompting a very satisfying yelp, and bounced off.

"Pick that up, I need it," said the blonde archer, doing her best not to laugh at the disgruntled expression Anna was wearing. She stared pointedly at the pin which lay on the bedspread.

"Well, you shouldn't have thrown it at me in the first place."

"You shouldn't have mentioned the d-word."

The redhead snorted. "Oh, because that's not what that is?"

"Exactly."

They stared at each other for a few long moments. Anna broke the silence with a loud 'pffffft' sound, clapping her hands to her mouth. Elsa's mouth twitched; before she could burst into laughter, she went to retrieve the hairpin.

"Yeah, go do your hair properly," said Anna, "you don't want Hans to see you all disheveled on your d–" She cut herself off with a meaningful smirk.

Elsa briefly contemplated the merits of murdering her sister versus the downsides (not being able to finish the competition and spending the whole night getting the bloodstains out of her clothes); in the end, she swept out of the room, head held high, ignoring Anna's raucous laughter.

* * *

Hans was lounging in the hotel lobby when Elsa came out of the lift, his back to her. She was careful not to make a sound until she was standing directly behind him.

"I hope you haven't been waiting too long," she said dryly, "you looked rather comfortable."

She smirked when he shot out of his seat.. "Elsa! Um, no, I just got here." Hans' eyes traveled up and down, lingering just a second too long over her chest to be casual, and he flashed her his usual smirk, knowing full well she had noticed him staring. "You look… wow. It's just a casual dinner, you know."

"Of course I do." Elsa resisted the urge to growl. "I didn't dress up especially for you."

"Good to hear." Despite his flippant remarks, he was rather smartly dressed himself. Hans held out a hand. "Well. Shall we go then?"

"Lead the way."

* * *

Elsa could see why the restaurant was Prince Eugene's favourite; Tony's was small and cosy, and when they opened the door, the aroma of freshly-baked garlic bread wafted out to greet them. Tony himself had welcomed them both with open arms after Hans had mentioned the prince's pseudonym.

"Signor Westergaard, it is a pleasure to meet you! Any friend of Signor Flynn is a friend of mine." The owner's eye fell on Elsa, and he threw up his hands. "And who is this lovely signorina?" boomed Tony, kissing her on both cheeks.

"This is Elsa Brundtland," began Hans, "she's, uhm. My teammate."

"Ah. Ahhhhh. Of course." Much to her horror – and Hans' as well, judging from his slackening jaw – Tony winked at them, collaring another man in chef's uniform who was bustling around the tiny restaurant. "Joe! The special for Signor Westergaard and Signorina Brundtland!" Pushing Joe back into the kitchen, he bowed them to a little table at the back of the restaurant.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you planned this," commented Elsa, temporarily pushing aside her own embarrassment to make fun of Hans', but he was ready for her.

"And I could say you're enjoying this."

Elsa opened her mouth to protest, feeling heat prickling on her face, but Joe had appeared, setting the table and putting a basket of bread between them. She glanced at the bottles, about to tell him to take them away, when she paused.

"San Pellegrino?"

"Ah, si," said Joe, "Tony wanted to serve-a the finest wino but you both cannot drink, no?"

"Oh. Yes. Thank you."

As the short man left, Elsa glanced at Hans, who quickly busied himself pouring water into their glasses. "You didn't prepare this at all?"

"Actually, I planned on having dinner alone," he said tersely, meeting her eyes. "I wasn't expecting you to accept my invitation."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," replied Elsa dryly, fully expecting their usual barbed banter; she was surprised, then, when Hans' eyes widened.

"Uh, no, not at all. I'm really glad you said yes. I just wasn't expecting you to."

"… oh." She broke their eye contact; Elsa staring at her empty plate, Hans focused on his glass. She could feel her cheeks redden and was glad the dim lighting didn't make them too obvious. It then struck her; accepting his dinner invitation meant she was spending time with this awkward Hans without the buffer of archery – or any distraction at all – to fill in the gaps. The thought made her mouth go dry.

Evidently the same thought had also entered his mind, because Hans took a large gulp of his water and refilled the glass. "So," he started, smiling at her.

"Why archery?" Before she could stop herself, the words left her mouth. He looked puzzled.

"Excuse me?"

"Why did you choose archery?"

He was saved from answering immediately when their pasta came. Elsa waited as Hans twirled his fork, the strands thickening into more than a mouthful's worth.

"I have twelve older brothers."

"And…?"

He lifted the fork to his mouth, realized the wad of pasta was too unmanageable, and set it down again. "All of them are professional athletes. I had to find something that I wouldn't be overshadowed in, that I wouldn't be someone's little brother."

"There was a magazine feature done on my family a number of years ago," said Hans, "about how they were all budding superstars in their chosen sports, and how my parents – retired Olympic athletes themselves – were so proud. I was still a kid then but I remember the article wrote that I "was going to have a hard time following in my brothers' footsteps"."

"Oh." It made perfect sense to Elsa; Anna's decision to pursue archery had drawn a lot of comparisons between the sisters, both flattering and otherwise, especially after Elsa's recent successes. Even now, she knew Anna was still struggling to come out of her sister's professional shadow. "That must have been hard."

Hans snorted. "Oh, it was. Still is, even though we're all grown up and living our own fucking lives." He stabbed a meatball viciously.

They ate in silence until Tony noticed their empty plates and chose that moment to bustle over to their table, two plates of panna cotta in his hands. "May I interest you in dessert, signor and signorina?"

"Thank you, but I couldn't possibly – "

"We'd be delighted, Signor Tony," said Hans smoothly. The owner beamed and set down the plates.

Elsa leaned across the table. "We are professional, world-class athletes," she hissed, "and we are on a strict training diet."

He pushed her panna cotta closer to her. "Try this first, and then get back to me." His good humour restored, Hans was smirking all the while; Elsa took a defiant spoonful as she held his gaze.

"… Oh."

"It's heaven, isn't it?" he agreed, taking a spoonful of his own, and then another.

"It's still not chocolate," she found herself saying. Hans raised an eyebrow.

"Is this not pleasing to Her Majesty?" he remarked.

Elsa scowled, but there was no real annoyance. "It'll do." She playfully reached over and scooped up some of his panna cotta, over Hans' loud protests.

* * *

Dessert worked its magic, and the light-hearted banter continued after they returned to their hotel. The lift jerked to a halt and as they exited, Hans raised an eyebrow. "This is my floor. I thought I was walking you back to your room?"

She pulled a face. "Yes, but it's still early, and I know that Anna will be lurking outside my room…"

"Ah. Understood." A sly smile curved his lips as they came to a stop outside room 113. "You remembered my room number. I'm flattered."

"You think too much."

"Good night," said Elsa, half-turning to leave as he fumbled in his pocket for his key.

He paused. "Wait, what?"

"I, uh – I'm going back to my room now?"

"Somehow, I think it'll be rude if I didn't invite you in." The archer laughed awkwardly. "I mean, it's not every day I'm walked back to my room."

"You'd better not. Coach would kill us." The rules of conduct for the Norwegian team were strict; even though they had been given an extraordinary degree of freedom to leave the hotel, having a person of the opposite gender in a room was strictly prohibited. "Plus we've still got our matches the day after tomorrow…"

"Excellent points," said Hans, and frowned slightly. "But I must say that I'm really not comfortable with the idea of you going back to your room alone."

"We're staying in the same hotel, Westergaard. Nothing's going to happen to me during the elevator ride one floor up and as I'm walking three doors down the hallway."

"You're right, all the action normally happens behind closed doors," he said with a trace of his usual smirk. She ignored it.

"Well, at least let me walk you to the lift," Hans said firmly. She resisted the urge to snort.

"If it keeps your fragile male ego intact, sure."

He laughed. "You're too kind, Elsa."

While they were waiting for the lift, Elsa was watching him. "Hans," she blurted out, "I think the magazine was wrong."

"That was abrupt," he commented with a raised eyebrow.

She flushed. "Uhm..."

"But thank you. It means quite a bit to me," he smirked suddenly, "especially coming from someone like you."

"You're welcome," muttered Elsa, staring at her feet and willing the carpet to swallow her. Just as she was regretting her decision to speak, the pause that followed her words stretched for longer than she had anticipated; she glanced at him.

"… Thank you for everything." Hans wasn't looking at her as he spoke. "

Elsa wanted to lie, to tell him it was just a dinner like any other. "Me too," she answered instead, and meant it.

Hans' expression changed. Before she could say anything, he came closer – much too close – and then he was kissing her. Elsa's eyes fluttered shut. A part of her wanted to push him away, but…

… the rest of her never wanted him to stop.

The lift dinged to signal its arrival; he pulled away. Elsa was feeling a little light-headed, her lips warm and tingling from the loss of contact. "See you tomorrow, Elsa," came Hans' voice from what seemed like far away. She was aware of nodding dumbly at him as the lift doors closed.


End file.
